“Tomorrow morning we’ll go to the library and dig for a topic,” said Papa, waving a sifter. Flour dusted his face.

“Papa, I’m not that excited about it. Anyway,” she said gloomily, “tomorrow I have Saturday Group.”

There was an expedition arranged, and they were to meet at 8:30 A.M. Macey did not feel like showing up. Saturday Group was hard. Volunteer work was supposed to make you feel wonderful, but Macey just came home feeling guilty. She was not in a Saturday Group mood. She was in a sleep late, watch cartoons, eat stacks of waffles and do nothing mood.

Nana rolled a lemon around the counter, softening it up before slicing it. “Did you remember that the first beach bonfire is tonight?”

“No, I didn’t! Ooooh, that’s wonderful! It’s good I’m spending the night.” Macey loved the first bonfire. It meant spring had come, and the window was open to summer: long, slow, hot summer. Sailing and crabbing, picnics and relatives.

Shell Beach was a crescent of sand and granite outcroppings, with twisty pines and tawny marsh grass. Only people who lived on Shell Road could use the beach, but they hardly ever did. People paid a million dollars for beach rights, but they didn’t go to the beach. They just liked knowing it was there.

The little beach attracted debris. Tree trunks and broken moorings, Clorox bottles and smashed Styrofoam picnic baskets washed up. Every spring, the residents of Shell Beach would carry away the garbage and prepare the wood for a beach bonfire. Branches and broken oars and planks from hurricane-wrecked docks were piled tepee fashion, eight or ten feet tall. The tepee was built way down on the sand, where it wouldn’t matter how high the flames were or whether sparks flew; nothing was around to catch fire.

“Did you buy lots of marshmallows?” asked Macey.

“Of course I bought lots of marshmallows,” said Nana. “That’s been my job for fifty years and I haven’t forgotten yet.”

Macey set the table. Dinner here was leisurely, at a beautiful table with fresh flowers. Nana and Papa were never in a rush. Perhaps they had rushed earlier in life, but they were over it now. They used cloth napkins, which they ironed, and silver, which they polished.

This was totally the opposite of home, where her parents ate off paper plates. This was supposed to be a secret from Nana and Papa, who felt they had failed as parents. Their daughter—their own child, Cordelia, this defective stranger—used paper plates at dinner. As for cooking, Macey’s parents hardly ever did such a thing. They lived on take-out.

Macey had her own bedroom at her grandparents’ house and kept plenty of clothes there. She knew kids who had two homes and hated it, because it was from divorce, but she had two homes and it was perfect.